


Pillow Talk

by Toft



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Dirty Talk, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-13
Updated: 2006-09-13
Packaged: 2019-07-11 23:30:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15982802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toft/pseuds/Toft
Summary: McKay was a talker.(NOTE: originally posted in, um, 2006 or something? A million years ago anyway)





	Pillow Talk

**Author's Note:**

> This is an OLD STORY - in fact my first ever written in SGA. It was brought to my attention that it wasn't up on AO3, so here it is!

So, McKay was a talker. Like that was a surprise. In fact, John thought it would damn near have given him a heart attack if Rodney had been quiet the first time they had sex, because Rodney only went quiet when things were really, really bad. John had been listening so hard as he kissed and touched and bit, even through the roar of _yes good now_ that had pretty much drowned out the rest of his mind, particularly the part that told him how stupid this was. He hadn’t realized that he’d been absolutely terrified until Rodney took a really deep breath and let it out with an explosive _oh_ god _don't stop_. When Rodney was talking, that meant that everything was okay, so the fact that he babbled non-stop through that first blow-job – variations on a theme from _this is insane, you’re insane, oh, oh Jesus, ok, I take it back, you’re a genius_ to _Christ, fuck, John, please_ \- must mean, John figured, that it had been pretty fucking okay. And John was just fine with that.  
  
He just wasn’t quite prepared for how much Rodney talked during sex, when his mouth wasn’t otherwise occupied, although it was weird how Rodney could seem to manage to keep up the one-sided conversation even when he had his mouth on John, making these little considering, pleased noises, like he was taking notes. The constant stream of words was kind of distracting. That first time, John had actually stopped, abandoned Rodney’s cock (okay, not without difficulty, but he was already on the edge there and the buzz of this running commentary above him was starting to get to him), and snapped, “Shut _up_ , Rodney,” but his voice had cracked a bit in the middle, he’d sort of been trying not to crazily hump the bedsheets at the time and he didn’t think Rodney had heard him through his own whine of protest anyway ( _hey, no, don’t stop, please_ ) and it seemed best at the time to return to the job in hand. In mouth. Five minutes later, the issue seemed kind of irrelevant.  
  
The second time he blew Rodney, John was a bit more relaxed, having just come all over Rodney’s stomach and hand, and he just tuned it out. It was easy, just the difference between _did you maybe learn about a little thing called gravity in grade school?_ and _oh Jesus, where did you learn to, yeah, right there, that’s, yes_. After a little while, John got to kind of like it. He even listened, sometimes, held back and let Rodney beg. It was… gratifying. He never lasted long with Rodney writhing against him like that, his hair all mussed and his mouth pink and wet, trying to string together a coherent command ( _are you deaf? Major, put your mouth oh god oh please please touch me_ ). John liked drawing it out with Rodney, though, because it was something new and great, this friends-with-benefits thing, but every day might bring Rodney freaking out or John freaking out – because neither of them was that gay, really - or something worse, like one of them dead. So John usually ignored the talking, along with a lot of other things, like the way Rodney’s hair felt under his fingers when it was wet and how he thought John doing math was hot. Maybe that was why John didn’t notice at first when a few new things started to crop up in the litany, in between the moans, blasphemy, curses, praise and criticism of his technique, obscene demands, inquiries into his sexual history, insinuations about the marital status of his parents and, on one memorable occasion, an insight into how the cloaking on the jumpers worked ( _ah, shit, no, seriously, John, stop, I have to write this down, oh, if you make me forget this I’m going to kill you, right after I fuck y- oh_ God).  
  
He was fucking Rodney slow and sweet over the desk in Rodney’s room, licking the back of his neck and breathing him in – it had been almost a week down in a network of caves which might have had naquadah, and certainly had mean, dart-shooting, evil-smelling pygmies – when something switched on in his head, like someone with the gene had just walked in, and he heard what Rodney was muttering into his own arm ( _Christ, John, missed you so much, want you, wanted you, you have no idea, god_ ). After that, slow went out of the window. Slightly belatedly, it occurred to John to be freaked out. He considered it for thirteen to fifteen seconds – which was, coincidentally, the exact time bracket for which Rodney stopped talking after orgasm, unless he fell asleep immediately afterwards – and decided that freaking out was so long overdue that it would be stupid to start now. He then considered whether the fact that it had taken him this long to think about freaking out was worth freaking out over, and fell asleep with his face pressed against Rodney’s neck and an arm slung over his shoulder, Rodney mumbling happily into his hair.  
  
From that point on, he began to pay more attention. The next time Rodney fucked him, he gasped, _what you do to me, never, I’ve never, god_ , into John’s collarbone as he slid into him. A week later, after the day of the death-by-hallucination virus, he let himself into John’s room at three a.m., stumbled through the dark and crawled into bed with him, and although John was mostly asleep through the whole thing and just let Rodney plaster himself all over him and grind desperately between his thighs as John stroked his back, he made sense of some of the whispers against his cheek and his chest as he drifted into wakefulness. _I could have, if you, god, if you die, don’t die, John, I, I need, ah._  
  
Then there was the Chaya thing, and then, yeah, the next three weeks felt longer than they had any right to be. After Rodney messed up with Alina and that damned ZPM, though, John figured they were even, and fucked Rodney against the wall of a storeroom down on the third level, which was fun, not least for the moment when Rodney stopped swearing at him for the wrong reasons and started swearing at him for the right reasons ( _fuck you if you think I’m going to, ah, and, fuck, fuck, don’t stop you son of a bitch_ ).  
  
Maybe it was because he’d been listening more closely, actually started to make an effort, for Christ’s sake - and John told himself that this was part of the whole apologising-about-Chaya thing, even if Rodney didn’t know he was apologizing and he didn’t really need to apologise anyway - that it really rattled him when he came and found Rodney after the debriefing for a bad mission, the worst, fully clothed in his shower with blood (not his, thank god, not his) seeping out of the fabric and trickling down his bare ankles, swirling into pink down the drain. “Hey,” said John, “Rodney,” but Rodney didn’t speak, even when John stripped off and got into the shower with him, stood under the jet while he undid the straps on Rodney’s vest. The silence scared him, more than the serrated knife at the kid’s neck had, just before Rodney was sprayed with blood, and John was reminded abruptly of a dream he’d had a couple of times, the one where he convinced Elizabeth to sink the city while under Wraith attack, and realized, as Atlantis drowned, that he’d forgotten they needed air. After that, he didn’t want the water on him anymore.  
  
With the shower off, though, there was no noise at all, which was worse. John spoke to Rodney as he stripped off the rest of his wet clothes, saying everything he could think of ( _we did all we could, you know that, right?_ ) in the hope that something would be right. It usually worked with Elizabeth, and he couldn’t bear that Rodney wouldn’t look at him. He dried him off, his chest aching at the way Rodney docilely bent his head for the towel and didn’t bother to flatten his hair afterwards, even when John murmured into his ear that he looked like a hedgehog as he steered him towards the bed. It was surprisingly easy to just keep talking, after that. John stroked Rodney until he hardened against his palm ( _yeah, that’s it, come on, Rodney, you need this_ ), kissed his unresponsive mouth, licking and biting until Rodney finally let him in with a whimper that made something sharp rub against the rawness inside John’s chest, jerked Rodney off as he held him tightly, tightly, murmuring soft encouragement as Rodney gasped brokenly against him ( _let it go, that’s it, give it to me, shhh, yeah, it’s okay now_ ).  
  
When he was sure Rodney was asleep he put his head on his chest and listened to his heartbeat, just for the steady, predictable noise, but didn’t fall asleep until Rodney started to snore.  
  
Two weeks later, Rodney fucked him, and John heard _I, ow, don’t –_ ribs, _just because I don’t get manly bandages doesn’t mean – ah, love you, John, fuck, that’s good_.  
  
John thought about freaking out for about three seconds before he came.  
  
Three days later the Wraith were coming and it had all gone to crap, but Rodney kept talking ( _like that, yes, love you, John, oh_ ) which made it a hell of a lot easier to pretend that they weren’t all probably going to die. Then they were both exhausted, in pain, sick from coming down from adrenaline and fear but alive, alive, and Rodney rasped over and over in this high, hurt voice into John’s mouth, John’s skin, _never, never do that again, you hear me, John, I can’t, just, please,_ while John whispered back, in between bruising kisses, _shut up, shut up, shut up_.  
  
Two days later, Rodney stared straight at John as he came and said, “God, I love you.”  
  
John sobbed for breath, flopped down on top of Rodney and said, “Yeah, you, me too,” into the pillow.  
  
Eighteen seconds later, Rodney said, “Cool.”  
  
  
End


End file.
